


Three Times John Watson Was A Good Doctor...

by MilwaukeeMeg



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-22
Updated: 2011-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-18 12:33:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilwaukeeMeg/pseuds/MilwaukeeMeg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... one he was bad, and one time he managed to be a good patient. Humor, drama and some fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Times John Watson Was A Good Doctor...

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I know. I'm supposed to work on 'The Great Game - Shameless Parody'. But you see, this just crawled into my brain and didn't want to leave. So I thought, why shouldn't I write it? So let it be your present for this Easter, from me to you, just a little of heartwarming piece that came to my mind! :)
> 
> WARNINGS: Some swearing and some violence. Not much, though.

**THREE TIMES JOHN WATSON WAS A GOOD DOCTOR...**

 **1.**

 _Come at once, your presence is very much needed. SH_

 _At work, can't leave. Once make tea yourself JW_

 _I need to consult you in the medical matter. SH_

 _If you glared mycrofts head off, then no, there is nothing i can do. JW_

 _Fascinating. You really think you're funny. SH_

 _How can one pull an inch of glass splinter out of one's foot? SH_

 _Your kidding JW_

 _MY kidding? It hurts. SH_

 _If YOU'RE wondering, your grammar and my foot both hurt. Can't tell which one more. Foot, I think. SH_

 _don't move, i'll be in 10. JW_

 _Oh my, that puts an end to my desire to run a marathon right now. Are you thinking when you're writing, or you just hit letters at random? SH_

John Watson, using his very own brand of magic and/or several quantum paradoxes, managed to get to the flat in 7 minutes and 47 seconds; he took another fifteen seconds to climb up the stairs, and then the whole minute to stand in the doorway and stare with disbelief at Sherlock, seated on the armchair, with his injured leg resting on the coffee table. Detective's whole posture and expression was the one that could be seen either on very bad painting showing long – suffering martyr for greater good, or the one of that was a trademark of little old ladies that know medical encyclopaedia by heart and are wholeheartedly convinced that they posses every illness ever discovered.

It was, however, Sherlock's exposed foot with a glass splinter that managed to startle the good doctor. John, of course, expected to find that the mysterious piece of glass has pierced through the whole foot, with blood gushing from the wound in most messy and unstaunched way. What he really found, was the other matter altogether.

'An INCH, Sherlock? An INCH of a splinter' he managed eventually, still standing in the doorway, panting slightly from all the running he did to save the life of his idiotic flatmate. Sherlock shrugged and, in afterthought, moaned slightly in pain.

'It was an approximation. You honestly can't expect me to think as clearly as ever with this... thing up in my body!'

'Sherlock, this is not an inch. This is not a damned half of an inch. This MIGHT be a one tenth of an inch, and with loads, loads of good will on my side! You have a tiny, miniature splinter that even seven year old would just take out without much thought. You...' John honestly couldn't tell if he wanted to laugh or cry. Probably cry from laughter, especially after looking into Sherlock's face, marked with higher level of suffering and pain. Here sat a man who could survive without eating for days, who not so long ago had been killing himself with cocaine, who jumped from seven stored buildings and who jumped in front of cars at every occasion... And he was worried about a splinter.

'But John... It _hurts_!' cut in Sherlock, his lower lip slightly trembling. John took another look at his favourite flatmate, noticing (apart from obvious and overdone dramatics) the paleness, slight and almost imperceptible body tremors and the unmistakable distraught expression. Oh well, Sherlock really was hurt, even if the injury was not major (association, cut in the voice in John's head, he's really thinking of something else altogether, maybe bad accident in childhood? Maybe this called for different approach... ). He just let his doctoring traits take the lead.

'Okay, I'll just... take tweezers and gauze and we'll get it out...' he stated calmly, crouching in front of the foot and examining it properly to see if there was really no serious injury (nerve endings? not likely, maybe some muscle, but no, not really). Sherlock almost kicked John in his face, jerking suddenly.

'NO! You're not toughing it, not now!' he shrieked, yes, shrieked, in panic, and beforeJohn could say anything, he explained. 'It will hurt and I want to be prepared. I'm not prepared now, so you must wait... approximately thirty minutes.'

John refrained from telling him, that it meant thirty more minutes with splinter inside Sherlock's foot; instead, he shrugged.

'Sure, as you wish. I'll make some tea, okay?' he said brightly as he stood up and moved to kitchen, smiling reassuringly whole time. 'And to pass this time I'll tell you what I read today in the paper, it might interest you. There is a story of a French detective that works in similar way to yours, I think his name is ... Herman Poirot?' said John brightly while rummaging through one of the drawers. Sherlock moaned, this time in frustration, and even though John had his back turned at the detective, he could _feel_ this epic eyeroll.

'It's _Hercule_ Poirot, John, most ridiculous name. What was his mother thinking, if anything at all, of course...'

'No shit, _Sherlock_ ' mumbled John, but detective chose to ignore his comment.

'... and he is Belgian, not French. He's horrible, absolutely horrifying, you should see how he carries himself – and most actresses never SAW so much make up in their lives, compared to what he daily puts on his skin. Honestly, you could scrape it with trowel.'

'Uhm' nodded John in approval, setting steaming cup in front of Sherlock and crouching back near his foot, toying with a piece of metal he picked from the kitchen. 'But he is a genius, nevertheless...'

'Genius?, No one who falls in love with his own moustache can be genius! This man is... moustachosexual. Besides, I hate his style. Do you know that he rounds up his suspects and proves to them that they all had the motive and could do it before... Where are you going?'

John stood up and in two long strides reached for his jacket, getting out from its pocket a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a lollipop. Sherlock gaped at him. John smiled and waved with a tiny and a little bloodied piece of glass.

'You... You took it out while I ...'

'Here you are, Sherlock. For my very brave patient, a lollipop' said John brightly, shoving offensive candy in detectives hand, while disinfecting the cut. Sherlock huffed and set the lollipop down, as if it tried to burn him, eat him, or kill him in most devious way.

'I hate you. I hate your lollipop.'

'It's strawberry' Said John with a small smile, leaving the room.

'I hate your strawberry!' yelled Sherlock after him, but not tearing his eyes from the candy. With a quick glace around, he grabbed the lollipop, tore off the paper and stick it in his mouth in joy. Yes, John was his favourite doctor, okay, but he didn't really need to tell him that, right?

 **2.**

Mycroft was not exactly sure how he found himself in his very own bed with John Watson lying next to him. The morning was normal, for him at least – some intelligence work for MI6, several notes to embassies, one assassin with katana, meeting with Sherlock... Yes. The last one was clearly the mistake and started this whole mess. Or rather, thought Mycroft risking a quick glance at the doctor who laid by his side, it all begun two days ago, when Mycroft had to stand for three hours at the airport in cold and rain, getting soaked despite his beloved umbrella, and talk to some half crazed Swiss diplomats. So it didn't come to him as a surprise, when the next day he found himself in dire and completely unacceptable need of ridiculous amounts of tissues and throat lozenges. It was, of course, extremely distracting and troubling, however it didn't exactly interfere with his schedule, so he pragmatically let his leucocytes do their job, just as he was about to do his. It came to his ad, even, when the Lithuanian president decided to sign (top secret) document just out of pity.

It all went downhill the moment Dr John H. Watson stepped into his office, as always partly hiding behind Sherlock (fear? unlikely. Need to protect? Embarrassment? this was something Mycroft should take his time to find out), his quite perceptive eyes taking in the bin full of used tissues, several sheets of different pills and a proud bottle of syrup, that made such an impression on Lithuanian president

'Are you ill?' asked the good doctor as a extremely creative take on 'good morning', frowning slightly. Mycroft smiled at him in most scary and threatening way, that sent kings and presidents on a journey to find themselves in very small, dark places like, for example, under their beds.

'I am perfectly all...achoo!' for future reference, thought Mycroft while blowing his nose, reassuring on one's health is more believable without sneezing in their middle. John Watson neither looked convinced, nor threatened into silence, and before Mycroft could react, Doctor was checking his temperature and pulse. Quick glace in Sherlock direction proved useless, as his treacherous brother managed to look smug, worried (his acting skills evidently improved, then) and amused simultaneously. No help from this side.

'Doctor, I believe that I can evaluate my health...' started Mycroft, standing up just to put a chair between him and John Watson. Doctor sent him The Look.

For those who never encountered The Look, it is a special kind of wordless communication invented by JHW, that manages to give the receiver three messages. First could be translated into words into "If you think you know anything about your health, you are stupider than an amoeba after lobotomy". Second was a bit more straightforward – "Bitch, please". Third was just simplistic – "I know 361 ways to kill you with a single sheet of paper. Do you want to evaluate your answer?". People usually did. Mycroft didn't stand a chance to answer and spoil this statistics, really, because a painful fit of coughs escaped him even though he tried his best to suppress it.

'That's it, you're done here, Mycroft' stated John, promptly taking a pen from Mycroft's desk. 'Sherlock, we're taking him home, try to find some transport.'

'OUR home?' asked Sherlock, suddenly not so amused by his brother's condtition.

'HIS home, you must know where he lives. Say 'ah'!' as Sherlock joyfully left to pester Mycroft's agents, Doctor tried his best to humiliate British Government himself, by forcing his mouth open, shoving a pen on his tongue, and peeking into his throat with no respect for secrets that travelled up it on regular basis. 'For the love of God, Mycroft, it's beyond me how such an intelligent man could go to work with tonsillitis.'

Every witty comment Mycroft tried to make on that was lost, as the pen put deeper and deeper into his tongue, as if to prove some point.

'I am not listening. You are going to bed right now, mister Holmes, the world won't collapse if you get a sick leave for a week.' said John, removing the pen.

Week? Mycroft wanted to say exactly what he felt about a week of bedrest and the chances for third world war in this case (87%, he estimated), but a wave of sudden dizziness hit him, so that the good doctor had to save him from very unprofessional fall.

Twenty minutes later he found himself in his villa, tucked into his bed with thermometer under his armpit, a cup of tea with honey on a nightstand, and a very pissed off doctor sitting in a chair nearby. Mycroft had to admit that his state must have been really bad, if he allowed his cell phone to be nicked by John Watson.

Doctor was just picking up twelfth call in 10 minutes, and was getting more and more aggravated.

'Mr Holmes is currently unavailable, he is ill. And I don't care if you're bloody Prime Minister...' started John a few decibels louder than necessary in given situation, but after hearing the interruption from the caller his angry stance was suddenly replaced by embarrassment. 'Oh. You ARE the Prime Minister. Well, it would be very hypocritical now for me to care, wouldn't it? So goodbye, please reschedule your important meeting.'

John hit the red 'disconnect' button and tried to say something, when telephone rang again.

'Mr Holmes is ill, so no meeting now, goodb... What do you mean if I know who I am talking to? Do you know who YOU are talking to? No? His bloody doctor, mister, and if I hear you disturb his rest again I'll track you down and remove your kidneys with a plastic spoon. Goodbye.'

John switched off the phone, and started reading some medical journal, just sitting here and keeping close eye to older Holmes.

'You know you just threatened Vladimir Putin? And could you get me a glass of water?' rasped out Mycroft, trying his best to look as sleepy as he could, given the international incidences that John Watson just created. If Doctor just left the room, Mycroft could sneak out of the bed and...

'I can think of 210 ways to knock you out with the journal I hold. So if you're by any chance thinking of leaving this bed, you can forget it.' said John Watson conversationally, his eyes not leaving the interesting text about usage of Star Wars movies in treating cancer (none, of course, but it was the only way to sneak in Leia slave-girl photos into the journal). Mycroft was surprised.

'Only 210?'

'Those are the ones that don't leave lasting effects.'

Yes, that was more like it. With the knowledge that he won't leave the bed for next several days came the realisation that indeed he felt ill. Actually, he felt half-dead, miserable, achy, wretched; his chest, head, eyeballs, throat and joints hurt in more ways he thought were possible. Before he could stop himself, he sniffed in despair, suddenly remembering the one time when he was seriously ill in his early years. Mumps, that were, and he could remember as clearly as if it was yesterday the soft, soothing presence of his mother who sat by his side the whole time.

He looked at the good doctor, who preoccupied himself with absolutely fascinating article about hair products. And Mycroft sniffed again, involuntarily. John casted him a sidelong glance.

'Feeleing bad, are we now?' he asked in such sympathetic way, that Mycroft immediately felt the urge to cry over his own miserable disposition. He sniffed for the third time. 'Aw, Mycroft, just a few days in bed and you'll be even healthier than before, I assure you.'

Mycroft of course knew that it was true, as much as he knew that his condition was not terminal, and that his black mood is a side effect of his body's fight. But once in his live this knowledge didn't brin g him any comfort, and he felt a sudden carving for a hug, a feeling of someone's fingers running through his hair... He tried his best to dismiss this thoughts; he was the British Official, after all, he couldn't possibly...

Oh. If the soothing, pleasant sensation that warmed his heart and lit up his thought was any indicator, he certainly COULD enjoy the warmth of someone's hand holding his.

'You're allowed to be miserable and ill, you know' said John Watson, smiling fondly, while seating himself on the bed, still grasping Mycroft's hand tightly.

Mycroft suddenly found out, that he didn't particularly mind when John Watson hugged him briefly. And he didn't really mind, thought Mycroft while snuggling closer to his doctor, that he was going to be ill for another few days – with reassuring warmth of Doctor's presence, he just knew that everything will be alright.

International affairs and Vladimir Putin could go and engage in reproduction, for all he cared, he smiled to himself and allowed the sleep to overcome him.

 **3.**

Right now, Sally Donovan hated her job, her colleagues, DI Lestrade, London, DI Lestrade, crimes and DI Lestrade. But mostly, she just hated children. And DI Lestrade, in afterthought. Because the bloody wanker didn't get the memo that even if Sally wore skirts, had breasts as well as other feminine parts of anatomy, enjoyed cooking and was proud to be a woman, she was not a stereotypical girly girl, who loved fluffy things, small animals and... exactly, children. She loathed those nosy, stupid, noisy little brats with passion, but of course it didn't mean that when there were some involved in the investigation, she won't be the one to take care of them.

So now she was testing her patience with two seven year old boys, whose mother was kidnapped by some psycho.

'But where's mummy?' asked the smaller one, who was on verge of tears, for umpteenth time. His eyes were a bit too watery for Sally's likening, and his lower lip was trembling slightly. The second boy tried to be 'brave' and managed to look like just a spooked animal, instead of a watery mass of misery.

'Look, sweetie, your mummy is lost now, but we are looking for her this very moment. You see that nice man in a gray coat, hmm? He's one of the best at finding lost mums, and he will do everything to find yours.' said she in nicest and most calming tone she could muster. It wasn't that she didn't feel disturbed by boys' predicament; she could feel her own dread about the fate of their mother, she pitied those fragile little being with all her heart. But she just didn't DO with kids, okay?

'But he's not the best? If he don't find mummy?' braver boy (Nick, remembered Sally) asked suddenly, his voice slightly panicky now. Before Sally could find appropriate answer, the well known voice butted in, in extremely unnerving manner.

'Doesn't. If he _doesn't_ find her. And there is 76% chance that she will be killed in very unpleasant manner.'

So, the Freak was here. Just to prove to her, undoubtedly, that this day could, in fact, get worse. Both boys unsurprisingly burst into tears, their little frames shaking with force of their grief and hurt. Sally tried to soothe their fears (fears? convictions, more likely).

'Now, stop it, your mummy will be alright, we're working on that...' but with this damned children's intuition, those two immediately knew that she was just feeding them banalities, and that this big, dressed in black man was speaking truth. So instead of calming them, Sally managed to aggravate them further, their cries became louder and filled with even more despair. She was out of her depths, trying to remember this course she did two years ago about psychology of a child, and failing miserably.

It was a right moment for a miracle. And it came, dressed in ridiculous beige and worn out jumper that smelled of tea, biscuits, cough syrup and gunpowder (Sally didn't want to know, really. Didn't need to now). The miracle in person of one Doctor John H. Watson crouched in front of the boys, who were sitting on a bench, took one hand from each, squeezed them tight and started talking in such a tone, that even Sally felt better immediately.

'Look, your mummy is in trouble, yes. A very bad man took her. But you see this scary tall guy? He'll find your mum, and he will scare the bad man away. If two such brave boys are scared, that bad guy doesn't stand a chance, does he?' John smiled fondly at the two brats, who by this time were sniffing loudly rather than having a panic attack, and released their hands just to pull them into tight hug.

Sally risked a glance at the Consulting Detective, who looked as if he couldn't decide whether to be flattered at being so scary, or insulted by such an image. He finally settled at being bored with the children and in several long strides moved to hear what Inspector had to say about the matter... And Sally followed, leaving the situation in most capable hands.

Ten minutes later, after being insulted by Sherlock over twenty times (4 personally, rest as a part of the police force), she glanced in the direction where two boys were seated. John Watson managed to position himself between two boys, holding them two close, whispering some (undoubtedly filled with guns and fire, he didn't seem to know any other... except those filled with gore and bodies) stories to giggling boys...

Giggling? Boys were... giggling? She had to look again. And again.

'How does he DO that?' she ask finally, cutting Sherlock's dithyramb about the magnificent art of deduction and idiotism of some people, he won't pint finger, of course, he doesn't HAVE that much fingers. Both Lestrade and Holmes looked at her a bit sheepishly, so with a nod in John's direction she elaborated. 'This... talking. He just talks t people and they're happier, they stop worrying, they just get better. Don't say you didn't notice.'

Sherlock huffed impatiently, his eyes fixed on the form of his Doctor.

'It's just... him. Besides, not everyone is happier after hearing John, so your theory is invalid. You should have seen that drugs dealer two days ago...'

'I did' muttered Lestrade, smirking slightly. 'Third time in my career when a criminal was begging me to arrest him, to take him "away from HIM"' he ended by imitating this girly squeak. Sherlock said something fascinating about two previous times, but Sally didn't really listen to him, tuning out the entire conversation in favour of watching Watson deal with those little brats, who both sneaked onto his lap and clutched the jumper as if it was their lifeline.

The Freak could say all he wanted. There WAS some magic involved.

* * *

. **.. ONE TIME HE WAS BAD...**

'Remind me once again, please. Did he say _It's going to be easy, there won't be anyone inside_?' mimicked Lestrade, kicking the metal door for seventeenth time. It really seemed like an easy job, at the time. Get in, take the papers, get out, no one would see anything, no one would hear, and Inspector could skip the unnerving bureaucratic mumbo – jumbo in favour of catching the criminal, for once. But of course, something went wrong. Ha, some _one_ was wrong, and if there were any ups to this wretched situation, proving Sherlock bloody Holmes wrong was one, and a pretty big one.

Sherlock anticipated that there would be no members of the cult, just an old housekeeper who dozed in the evenings, so he, Lestrade and John could have slipped in unnoticed, take the papers that proved that both burglary and murder they investigated were a doing of half – crazed cult guru. Lucky bunch they were, it shouldn't come as a surprise that they managed to invade a mansion while there were not only regular occupants, but the entire _convent_. Sherlock managed to escape, somehow, but both Inspector and Doctor got into the clutches of people who hailed dinosaurs and liked to roast their prisoners alive.

Lestrade kicked the door again.

'Stop it, you'll just hurt yourself' mumbled John, who sat in the corner with his eyes closed.

'At least I'm doing _something_ to get out!'

'Yes, fracturing bones in your feet is going to be very helpful' smirked John, and Lestrade had to admit he had a valid point. He never got an occasion to tell him so, because the door opened quickly with a ear-splitting squeak. Of course hitting Lestrade in the shin, because he clearly wasn't miserable enough. With a painful gasp, clutching his leg, he managed to fall in slightly dignified manner, instead of dropping like a satchel of potatoes what was his body's first idea.

John managed to be at Lestrade's side the second he hit the ground, preventing him from making any lasting damage.

'Well, well, well, here you are, sinners' said the hooded man in black nightgown that probably was meant to imitate a robe, while putting down some bread and a bottle of water. 'Tomorrow you shall be judged by the Giant Rex himself...'

Lestrade stopped listening, concentrating on more important matters such as the searing pain in his leg. It was the only thing he could do to stop himself from springing into action and knocking this slimy smile out of the cult member's face, what would not really help their predicament. John, in the meantime, carefully examined the leg, with ten times more attention it really deserved. And listened to the hooded man, obviously.

'I think we'll pass this _sinners walk_ , mister' said the doctor through clenched teeth, nudging the most painful place on Lestrade's leg, causing him to yelp rather in surprise than pain. 'Because he's got a broken leg, you sucker, and in this condition he won't go very far.'

'What?' squeaked the cult member, visibly shaken. 'What do you mean – broken?'

'Well, when the bone tissue gets disconnected in one or more places...' started answering John and only the shock of having his le broken was keeping Lestrade from laughing out loud, but the cult member didn't want to broaden his mental horizon.

'Shut up! Just... Shut up! Hell, what am I going... YOU!' panicky hooded guy pointed viciously at John, who stared at him with as little fear and respect as it was possible. 'You are a doctor. You can patch him up!'

'Well, yes. But I'll need some supplies. My magic wand was left in other coat' answered John, patting Inspector's leg. Which wasn't particularly nice and rather hurt – Lestrade was almost sure that he squeaked in pain, again. 'I'll need some bandage and a sling. Maybe some really straight branch, this length... '

'Sling.'

'No, a popsicle and toy car. Of course I need sling, how the bloody hell can I immobilise the leg without the sling? Tie it to second leg? Oh wait, I could, but we're talking about making him mobile, aren't we?'

The only answer was a loud bang of the door being closed with a tad too much force. Lestrade blinked.

'As much as I hate to contradict a doctor, I don't think it's broken...' he started, looking somewhat alarmingly at the maniac grin on Doctor's face, involuntarily thinking of all those unexplained deaths in London lately. Sherlock DID work on them... No, he really should stop this line of thinking. Watson laughed.

'Of course it's not broken, but if we're going to get out of here, he'll need a weapon' he explained, but Lestrade didn't feel exactly understanding right now. Seeing the confusion, John elaborated. 'You must have seen those lead pipes two corridors from here...'

Lestrade didn't, really, he was more preoccupied with counting the cult members and getting any clues as to who they were, but, well, he didn't hang out with Holmes 24/7. He suspected that it messed with a brain chemistry so much that you could indeed expect to be given a lead pipe by the kidnappers, in that case. In fact, Lestrade thought it was crazy enough to work.

'Here you are' mumbled the hooded guy peeking into the room and handing John the bandages and a lead pipe. 'Will it be of any use?'

'Quite' said John with dignity, weighing the pipe in his hand. 'Not perfect, but we'll see.' And whacked the unsuspecting cult member, knocking him unconscious. 'Yes, quite acceptable.'

'Hippocratic oath is only a guideline, then?' asked Lestrade with a chuckle, seeing as the good doctor checked the skull of hooded guy. John flashed his teeth.

'He's not MY patient. Besides, even if he was, I don't think Hippocrates ever found himself in a cellar, about to be killed with The Tyrannosaurus's Bone Of Doom.'

'I see your point' said Lestrade risking the peek out of their cell, thinking that it was a beginning of a beautiful friendship.

* * *

 **... AND ONE HE MANAGED TO BE A GOOD PATIENT.**

Sherlock should feel bored by now. He catalogued every sound made by every machine in the room, he knew every stain and crack in the walls and ceiling, he could recite whole leaflets of the medicines that those clumsy nurses brought several times a day. What he couldn't do, was tearing his eyes from John Watsons face for longer than three minutes.

(The wall was collapsing, Sherlock could predict how the bricks would hit the ground, how John's body would stand in their way, how the soft tissue would react on such a force... NO. He will not try to remember.)

There were many people coming and going. Donovan and Anderson, who always liked making fun of John but brought him coffee and sandwiches

(Donovan shouting, blood smeared on her cheek, Anderson and Lestrade holding Sherlock back)

when Sherlock forgot, again, that some people needed to eat regularly. Mrs Hudson, with some pie, tart, and broth, chattering about inconsequential things that Sherlock promptly deleted the moment they made their way into his brain. He wasn't even sure if he told her anything, 'good evening', even, it just wasn't important. There was Sarah, who cried (and her new boyfriend was abusive, Sherlock saw that but couldn't really bring himself to care, John would, probably),

('She's in there, Sherlock, stay here and don't move, I'll get her out' he said, then, running back and then there was that wall and black and white were gray, again, gray powder everywhere and it took Sherlock whole minute to understand it was not a metaphor)

Sarah who didn't acknowledge Sherlock and kissed John on his cheek, crying whole the time, contaminating his prone form with this wetness, saying that she missed him, when she couldn't, not the way Sherlock did. Mike Stanford, who stood in the door not knowing what to say, who left without the word but Sherlock knew, of course, what he didn't say, heard the regret in those little heavy steps. There were John's friends from the army, strange flock of boring people Sherlock read without trying. Next came Harry Watson, who drunk 'just a sip' of scotch on her way here, he could have said that it was out of champagne glass, if he cared enough to open his mouth at this point. Harry Watson, who cried, wallowed in self pity and shouted at Sherlock that it was all his fault her little brother was hurt; she was right, of course, but gave the wrong reasons, as it could be expected from someone so narrow-minded. John needed cases as much as Sherlock did; he needed the chase, the adrenaline, the feeling of being on the top of the world. What John needed, too, was someone to say 'stop' when he got carried away.

(Sherlock should have been that person, he wanted to shout, to drag John back, to stop him from going but could only watch as the wall started collapsing, and then it was too late, Lestrade was screaming something and he could only repeat his friend's name, his _prayer_ , over and over, stopping his brain from assessing damage, from telling him facts and figures he didn't need, didn't want right now, when John, _John_ was under that wall and)

Harriet Watson screamed, bellowed and it was one time when Mycroft's assistance was needed and appreciated, as he just took her arm, and very politely forced her out of the room. Sherlock stayed silent when his brother came back; there was nothing to be said, because all the important words should have been said long ago. Now, when John

('You don't care, do you?'

And he wanted to scream 'I do, John, I cannot not care when you're around and the world is all warm and fuzzy and crazy in the good way and when you're not here it's just a noise, bloody scattered noise, and the edges are sharp and I want to hurt them just to feel anything'... But what came out was different, he just couldn't say those things, he didn't know whether 'fuzzy' was a word, even.

'I ask again: would it help if I did?' )

When John was lying here, connected to life with all those machines, tubes, cords and wires... There was nothing left. So Mycroft went away in silence, after trailing his fingers through John's hair, lost in thoughts and Sherlock didn't really think it was strange. He would touch John too, if he could forget this burning sensation

( _John, John, john, johnjohnjohn,_ he felt someone trying to unclench his fingers from John's bloodied form, but he couldn't really let go, because he never told him)

of holding his hand in ambulance.

Lestrade came in, too. Greyer, tired, older, shoulders slumped (and he had a row with his wife, something about cereal, just look at his right hand, J...). He sat with Sherlock for an hour, his eyes never leaving John's face. Then he stood, a bit too quickly, knocking down a silly plastic chair, hugged Sherlock, whispered

'He was mine friend, too. I know'

and left, before Sherlock could stop himself from appreciating his warmness and leaning into the embrace.

During this six days Sherlock talked to a doctor at least twenty one times, but not even one of this talks was useful. He was meant to talk to John, as it could help...

'Help him, or me?' asked Sherlock, his voice rough and to his disdain full of bitterness instead of intended sarcasm. Doctor, young widower with one three year old child, just smiled knowingly while answering.

'Both.'

But Sherlock didn't talk. It was useless, there was no indication that people in coma could really hear what others were telling them; they were reacting to sound of familiar voices, and with all those stupid emotions that spread like a virus in Sherlock's chest he won't manage anything familiar enough for John to recognise. It all came down to John's body now. Young Doctor said he should have woken up by now, and John always liked good orders.

'C'mon John' whispered Sherlock on seventh day, almost touching his friend's hand.

(Hand was sticking out of the rubble, sweetest and most horrifying sight in Detective's life)

'You always wanted me to be a good patient, remember?' asked Sherlock on eight day, John's hand clasped tightly in both his. 'You said that one should always listen to one's doctor, and I think you're breaking this rule now. Some good example you're setting.'

John's hand twitched.

'Trying to be a good patient, are you now?' babbled Sherlock, smiling and almost invading John's bed, trying to get closer, trying to see if he really was okay, if he was waking, if this nightmare...

Corners of John's mouth curved into a small smile as he clutched Sherlock's hand a bit tighter, and in Detective's world the sun has risen.

* * *

A/N: Please, please comment.


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